Golden Brown
by dream-factory0
Summary: It had become the only thing that really mattered to him anymore. The only thing that could truly make him feel alive. Until, the re-appearance of an old friend serves as a reminder of his own warped reality. His old life begins to resurface and Alfred is left to face head-on what he had tried to forget. To try to overcome his addiction and need for an emotional crutch. USUK
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_ There will be a quite a lot of **TW's** for the rest of this fic. (Not for this chapter) But, just for future reference. I'll be listing them at the beginning of each chapter. If you're not 18 or over. (Then...just do what you want, since you're probably gonna do it anyway, right?) Be aware that it contains _mature content and language. _**Also_, _**This story will contain other pairings and/or mentions of other pairings. Though they are not _the_ central pairing of the story. Other pairings include: _RusAme, RusCan, AmeLiet & EngSey_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters. **

* * *

There had once been a time, when Alfred Jones was secure. A time when he was sure of where he was heading in life, certain of his goals and what he would have to do to achieve them. To make everyone dear to him proud. That path had been paved and set out for him perfectly. All he had to do, was walk accordingly. To not stray from the road.

Through the blurred memories of his childhood, he'd never known what he ever did to lose the way. Not really. There had been nothing done _on purpose_. The circumstances that changed everything had been through no fault of his own.

All because of a small, insignificant difference. It was ironic, to some, that the handsome, young and promising golden boy and the son of the local, beloved priest would, in fact, turn out to be gay. A small, yet deal-breaking, matter that seemed to change everything. The day he had discovered this had been the worst day of his life - or so he had thought, at that time.

It all started, or was finalised, when Alfred was just thirteen years old. With the arrival of a young Lithuanian boy who frequented his church, a boy named Toris.

Toris' entire family was strictly religious. To an almost obsessive degree. Even Alfred's father was a little surprised by the piety to their God. They didn't own a T.V. or even a radio. Even in the blistering heat, they were always covered head-to-toe in plain grey, black or white colours.

All of their books and reading material had to be checked thoroughly for 'undesirable' content, they fasted as repentance and kept their children in tow and in line. Because of this, Toris found freedom in Alfred's home. A place that his parents would trust. Though, in actuality, it was a place where he could read all the comic-books he'd ever want to, play video games he'd ever want to play and - best of all - eat junk food.

Toris rarely smiled and Alfred had felt a strange sort of want to make him. He spent a lot of his energy, trying to make him laugh, even if it meant he was the butt of every joke.

He had wanted his happiness so desperately and felt he wanted to give all he could to make sure he stayed that way. Even to him, their bond had always felt a little dangerous. As if they were carefully treading a thin line around each other.

The line was one that Alfred, himself, understood. Even though he passed it off quite simply as nothing, as just a curiosity - at first. He had read about boys who had gone through similar fantasies at his age and older. These fantasies and thoughts centred around mostly Toris. At night, they found him, thoughts that left him breathless and tight-chested, as his hands always reached beneath his shorts.

Before Toris, he had these thoughts on occasion, but none so strong and persevering. They had deep-routed deep within his mind, until he couldn't help but want to be closer to him in this way when they were together. However, their time together didn't last long.

Toris' parents found a comic that Alfred had given him in his backpack. Soon, they found out about his eating-habit and activities. They banned them from seeing each other and stopped attending their church altogether.

They didn't return a single call or email and no-one answered when Alfred had called at his house. Alfred was persistent. But, in all of his ventures, he only ever came across Toris' parents. Who did their up-most to ward him off by insulting and even threatening him a phone-call to the police and a restraining order.

At that point, he felt so embarrassed that he stopped looking. Fearful that others may notice just how much he had meant to him. A few months later, their house was empty, with a 'sold' sign in the front-yard. He hadn't even said goodbye.

He felt heartbroken - it was the sheer depth of his grief for Toris that made him realise and accept what he was. Though, he did not reveal that truth until he was older. At sixteen years old, he revealed the truth to his father.

Mr Jones was a well-loved and respected person within their community. The local priest, loved and trusted by many. In him, they truly believed him to find a connection to their Lord. Through his words and manner; they felt a kind of peace and safety.

Alfred had once felt and believed it too. He had looked upon his father with such adoration and awe. He had never once seemed like a cruel man. He was pleasant, forgiving and gentle. Soft-spoken but firm.

It was the drastic change in his love, that was the worst and most painful betrayal of all.

Alfred felt wounded by it. Without any kind of warning, he had no time to prepare himself for such a heavy blow. On the matter of Alfred's sexuality, there had been no real discussion. Mr Jones had grasped hard on his knees, keeping a sort of distant expression fixed on the pristine, cream carpet leading up to the skirting board.

Then, slowly, he rose from his favourite arm-chair, with the same listless expression on his features, as he made his way up the stairs and into Alfred's room. Alfred had thought he needed time, that he had left only to mull it over. It wasn't until he heard the sounds from upstairs, that he understood.

Alfred remembered calling after him, screaming until his throat was raw. His own voice growing higher and louder, as his father began smashing, breaking and tearing Alfred's things to pieces. His posters, his comics, photographs, sports certificates and awards. His mother was sobbing.

But, even as he packed Alfred's things, yanked the photos and posters from his walls and threw Alfred's clothes into his suitcase around the room with powerful gestures of ferocity and malice.

He kept the same straight face - altered only by the redness of his cheeks and a flare of his nostrils from the effort. He had shamed them so deeply, that he would erase him any sign of him and his memory. All over a thing that he couldn't even control.

"You have to leave..." Those words were the last and only he'd cared to share on the matter.

Mrs Jones leant on the wall for support, her trembling hand on her heaving chest as she watched with wide, glassy blue eyes through her circle framed glasses. Alfred took in that sight of his mother. Just as the small pieces of the posters fluttered between them in the air.

Even when they had left him on the side of the road, he caught those same eyes beneath her round glasses as she turned out of rear-view mirror. A hand went to her mouth and she turned back to face the road ahead.

Alfred walked up behind the car as it sped off. Ever so slowly, disappearing off into the distance. He watched the horizon blankly in disbelief, for a few moments. That was it. He was alone.

With one thousand dollars in his pocket, to cover his fare and rent for a few months in a dingy apartment they'd found for him. Along with a full-time job as a waiter that they'd found for him in the city. A city completely foreign to him; New York. He could hardly believe it.

He waited at the side of the road for a few moments, without uttering a word to himself, without uttering anything at all. A part of him thought they might come back, that it was just a temporary punishment, to teach him a kind of lesson.

He watched the horizon as it shimmered and rippled with the heat. He kept his narrowed, hawk-like gaze on the same spot on the road, waiting and willing for the car to return. He waited in vain. By the time the sun had set, his skin was burnt and peeling.

They weren't coming back.

The first of many sobs broke from his dry throat. He clawed at the roots of his hair, pulling harshly on the strands. It was a tie that had been cut forever. To never see or speak to his parents again. All he could do was fall to his knees and wonder what he'd done wrong, what he'd done personally to deserve such treatment. To wonder when and where he went astray.

* * *

This is probably going to a angst-fest, in some places. Since, the subject matter is serious. The inspiration from this story mostly came from a movie (based on a true story) called The Basketball Diaries. And, yeah, if you haven't seen it already I suggest you watch it sometime. :)

Anyway, I have no idea whether I should stick with this. * \(◕-◕)/ *


	2. Chapter 2

** TW: swears & mention of drugs**

* * *

"There." Kiku whispered with a shiver.

Alfred fidgeted impatiently on his feet, whilst keeping a trained glance on the two men on the opposite side of the street. He burrowed his hands deep inside the pockets of the grey hoodie that draped over his thin frame. Kiku stood at his side, even more on edge, as he bit and tore at the skin at the edge of his nails till they were red raw.

"You sure they're safe?" Alfred asked, his voice shuddering through him. Kiku turned to him irritably, his brown eyes only flicking to him for a moment.

"Of course." He bit back hoarsely. He had given him an answer just to appease him - and Alfred couldn't really blame him for it. By now, he was restless and beyond rational thought. The colour that plagued the whites of his brown eyes was frightening. Bright-red, blood-shot and watery and circled with dark and shadow.

They both tensed in place, as one of the men stepped forward. A tall, balding, built man with harsh speculative grey eyes. He strode towards them, with a small package in his right hand, wrapped and woven tightly in a plastic bag. One large sweep of his hand gestured for them to both move forward.

Alfred turned to Kiku who nodded curtly in response. Kiku's hands were trembling with anticipation and he'd set off before Alfred could say another word. They'd gone without for too long, and they'd both grown too impatient. Kiku eagerly stepped forward. He dug his hands inside his own pockets, lowering his voice to a low murmur as he met the man face to face.

"How much?" He muttered as he filtered through his tattered wallet, a few sharp sniffs escaping between his lips. Alfred approached cautiously, noticing the other man across the street as he advanced closer. He kept a fixed stare on Alfred, which sent a shiver ripple down his spine.

"Ki-"

Before he could voice his concern, Kiku was grabbed in a arm-lock. Both of his arms were twisted behind his back. Alfred froze on the spot. The other man now walked faster at Alfred, his other hand dug inside the back of his jacket. Kiku howled in an immediate struggle, thrashing underneath the officer's grip, his bloodshot eyes met Alfred's, pleading him even as he struggled. Though, Alfred turned in a heartbeat and shot straight down the alley.

"STOP!"

He ran towards the wired gate, latching onto it with a claw-like grip as he tugged himself upwards, pulling harder and harder. The tendons of his fingers burnt, then felt awash with an ice cold as he strained them. The gate nicked his skin and latched onto his clothes, causing him to rip at both with each pull and his heart pounded violently against his chest. The officer closed in behind him and reached for his ankle.

Alfred reached the top, kicked over both his legs; and rolled off. He hit the soaking wet floor with a thud and spluttered with the harsh landing.

"Alfred!" Kiku howled. The click of a gun caused Alfred to raise his head in a sharp jerk, kicking once more of the pavement to shoot him forward. He turned around the corner of the alley.

He turned a number of ways around each corner, leapt over the fences and turned down irregular corners through the late-night crowded parts of the street. All the maze-like streets were common to him now. He now knew them like the back of his hand, like the rats in the railways station, that crawled along the tracks and tunnels.

The soles of his worn shoes pounded the pavement with each large stride and his thin legs bounced back upwards as if they'd grown lighter - almost weightless. The sound of a rising siren bleated loudly in the distance, drawing nearer and nearer, joining the overpowering rhythm of his heartbeat that throbbed in his ears.

After a painful 10 minutes, he had reached his limit and he stopped in a sharp halt. A stop so sharp that it pulled him forward onto his knees in momentum, onto the hard, wet side-walk.

With his heavy breaths, it sounded almost as if he were sobbing. The race of his heartbeat sent small, pounding jolts through his entire body and through his skull. He couldn't run much longer. Now, that he had stopped, he was finding it hard to even lift himself again. It was then, that he thought of Kiku and he cursed loudly. His only friend would now rot in a prison cell. He'd seen and heard many go the same way. But, never anyone so close. He had...called out for him.

Bracing himself, he inhaled a sharp breath, which burnt unpleasantly in his throat. To him, the flight instinct had been instantaneous. After all, he'd only ever thought of himself. He knew that. But, even as he reminded himself of this, he couldn't erase the image of Kiku's pleading face from his mind.

He crawled over to the wall to catch his breath. Then, pulled his knees upwards into his chest. The shivers were only becoming worse, shuddering through his entire body in an unbearable ache. He scratched at his the clothed skin of his arms, then grasped a handful of hair with both of his hands.

The crawling, scratching, niggling sensation crawled and wormed its way beneath his skin and scalp. He'd already scratched the skin of his elbows raw and bloody. These cravings would only make him go mad. _He had to have it. He **needed** it. He would die without it._

This time, he really did sob, a small moan of hopelessness escaped through his throat, as it successfully clawed its way up his chest.

* * *

By early morning, Alfred had found an old, empty, crumbled apartment that many used for the night. Of course, he wasn't alone. Squatters, the homeless and the lost all crowded in the living room, sleeping side by side to share warmth.

This night had not been so easy - it took him far too long to find rest nowadays. His heavy eyelids widened slowly, adjusting to being awake as he adjusted to the world around him, and to his place within it. For only a moment, he'd been able to forget and be far away in slumber. But, that peaceful dark never lasted long. As he slept, he dreamt of Kiku and of his capture and imprisonment. Above all things, he dreamed of_ it_. It never was absent from his thoughts - even in his dreams.

The dreams left him with an aching longing, and he woke feeling heavy with loss. The sockets of his eyes felt dry and sore, as if he'd gotten hardly a wink of sleep at all. The aches nagged at his joints and bones, which creaked and wailed beneath him like rotted wood.

It was evening the next day when he finally awoke, proving to him that he had truly become nocturnal. The day was warmer when one was asleep, and the night was alive with possibilities. Whilst the normal, contented people of the day slept safe in their beds.

By late evening next day, Alfred had made his way back onto the streets, mindful of any police-cars or watchful eyes. He rotated the corners and length of the busy-desolate corners and glanced around to find a wealthy pocket or purse. He hid his desperation well. By now, he was in psychical pain from his withdrawal.

Alfred breathed a quiet sigh of relief as a young man caught his eye. Dressed in a smart black suit, blazer and tie, he carried a black leather briefcase at his side. His eyes were kept low on the phone in his hands, illuminating in the dark his wealth for all to see. _It takes a special kind of idiot, to cross these streets at night, with such high-tech gear and fancy clothes. _

These types were rare to come by, since people were careful and wise about where they chose to walk at night. Opportunities like this were rare._ Anyone so foolish deserved what they got_, Alfred thought. He fidgeted on his feet for moment. Taking quiet steps to cross the street, he pulled up his soggy, limp hood over his head and lowered his head to the ground.

He tailed the man for a few blocks; who seemed blissfully unaware of his presence.

"Hello?" The man lifted the phone to his ear, pausing for a moment. Alfred's fingers twitched at his side, readying himself to snatch it from the man's hand. "No, they didn't answer," He sighed, his voice exuding an accent that Alfred couldn't quite grasp for a moment. The man reached up to ruffle the back of his blonde, scruffy hair. "I'll try again tomorrow," He gave another sigh.

Alfred wasted no more time. He shoved past him, his hand darting upwards to snatch the phone from the man's weak-wristed grip. Then, kicked off the ground and forced himself forward into a sprint.

"Oi!"

For a moment, a strange vibe filtered through Alfred. He had the strangest urge to look around and see the face of the stranger. Though, he quickly shook the strange thought away and continued on. Grasping the phone in tight, vice-like grip. It was his life-line. He desperately needed it. More so than any rich business type, who could probably buy another in a heartbeat.

Alfred turned round the corner, down another narrow alley. Feeling a hot rush shoot through his skull as his heart leapt to his throat.

"Get back here, you little prick!" The voice roared. The steps grew louder and louder, closer and closer until they were right on his tail. He hadn't put much thought into what would happen if he chased after him. No one ever caught him. Truthfully, he hadn't expected it from such a man.

Alfred wasn't exactly at his best either - lack of food and decent sleep had put a dampener on his normal speed. But, there was something else, a kind of unease and shock still hung heavy over him and slowed his steps. Alfred turned with a cry as the man reached out, throwing himself forward in a football tackle.

Alfred barely had enough time to cry out, before the wind was knocked from his lungs. They both skidded across the puddled, grimy floor. Stopping to a halt by a trash-can which tipped over onto the ground above Alfred's head.

The phone was pried roughly from his hands, as they bent back his fingers with a twisting strain. He felt a hand grasp around his neck, just around the collar of his shirt. The other ripped the hood from his face in a swift sharp movement. Alfred braced himself for the blow, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. His nose had been knocked out of place before and Ivan had to put it back. The pain had been excruciating, and the blood had dried in sore clumps around his nostrils. Once, he'd bitten right into his tongue with the force of just one unexpected punch. He tensed with the thought.

Though, not a single blow was delivered.

"A-Alfred...?" The figure above him spoke. _That voice. _It seemed as if a part of him had worked it out long before he had opened his eyes. The roots of his hair prickled with sweat and stood up on end on his arms. A shiver rippled through him as he let out his surprise upon exhale. For a moment, the movement of his lips seemed delayed, disbelieving the need to utter the name.

Though, the face remained - almost exactly like he'd remembered it. The set of deep-green eyes shrouded by a stern-looking, thick-set pair of eyebrows. The damp organised mess of blonde hair, hanging down over his face as he leant forward and put a hand to his forehead.

"Arthur." Alfred finally muttered.

* * *

_Bring on the USUK ~_

_It's super angsty, atm. But, it'll lighten up a little in the next one. _

_Side-note: Withdrawal symptoms are not exactly something I'm qualified to write about. And ofc, I only have a very shallow and base-level understanding of it. But, 'itchy-blood' is quite common with opiate withdrawal sufferers, which is sort of what I have tried to cover here._


End file.
